


Tell You Secrets Nobody Knows

by torakowalski



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Established Relationship, First Time, Multi, Strap-Ons, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:51:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>This is how Phil always hoped this would work; this is <i>them</i>, this is teamwork. They know how to do this.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell You Secrets Nobody Knows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [harborshore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harborshore/gifts).



> Happy birthday to my loveliest harborshore <3

Three days after Clint and Natasha turn up unannounced at Phil’s Portland safehouse, the three of them check into a motel in Boise and Clint and Natasha immediately disappear into the bathroom together.

Phil doesn’t say anything.

It’s none of his business: they’re adults and they’re off the clock. Besides, he’s shared a room with them many times before and he knows they know how to be discreet.

At least, he thought they did.

Five minutes later, he can hear the slap-thump of flesh hitting the wall and a mingling chorus of curses and groans.

Phil takes ten seconds to very calmly gather his shoes, jacket and wallet then walks out of the room.

He makes it to the diner down the street before he remembers that he hasn’t put his shoes _on_ but, by then, a waitress is showing him to a table and he decides to act as though that was his intention all along.

Dinner is pancakes and several cups of strong black coffee and it’s full dark before he goes back to the motel. When he gets there, Clint’s sacked out on his bed – mouth open and a fresh ring of bruises around his neck – and Natasha’s reading, propped up against her pillows.

Her eyes meet Phil’s, but she doesn’t say anything.

Phil walks into the bathroom to brush his teeth and finds that the room reeks of sex. He flings the window open wide and ignores the way his fingers grip the toothbrush too tight.

***

It happens again in Twin Falls and again in Salt Lake City. By the time they hit Denver, Phil doesn’t wait for them to start raising their eyebrows at each other, just picks up his book and walks out calmly.

He’s less calm when he punches the elevator wall twice, but there’s no one to see, so it doesn’t count.

***

In Wichita, Phil opens his eyes first thing in the morning and finds Natasha on top of Clint. They seem to be whispering more than fucking but they’re both naked – Natasha’s pale thighs bracketing Clint’s tanned waist – and that’s enough for Phil.

“You need to stop this,” he tells them. He means for it to come out like an order, but he shocks himself with how confused he sounds, how wretched. “I can’t – ”

He stops himself; that was nearly far too close to all the things he never wants them to know.

He keeps his eyes off the bed, kicks back his own comforter and heads into the shower. He may let the bathroom door slam a little, but he’s angry. No one can keep their cool in the face of this, not even Phil.

Phil isn’t stupid. He knows they’re angry with him too, what he doesn’t know is why they’ve picked _this_ as their way of punishing him.

He’s been careful to make sure that neither of them ever suspects the way he feels about them – individually and together – so he can only imagine that they’re telling him they don’t need him.

Which he already knows.

They’re the ones who came to Portland to fetch _him_ ; Phil had been prepared to distance himself. It feels as though they dragged him back just to hurt him more, but Phil knows them, knows they wouldn’t do that.

He’s honestly at a loss.

***

When he gets out of the shower, Clint’s dressed and sitting on his bed.

“Nat went for coffee,” Clint tells him quietly. His hands are on his lap, tap-tapping quietly against his thigh.

Phil turns away to pull a fresh pair of jeans out his hold-all and asks, “Do you want me to make my own way back to New York? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

“Sir?” Clint asks. He sounds confused, but Phil isn’t buying it.

“I’m obviously not wanted here,” Phil says flatly. His Henley’s stuck to the zipper and he can’t seem to get it free. Tugging isn’t helping. He tugs again, harder.

“You’re gonna rip that,” Clint says and comes over to kneel beside Phil. His deft fingers unhook the material in seconds but he takes a minute smoothing it out before he gives it back to Phil.

“Thank you,” Phil says stiffly. Clint smells of a combination of his own shampoo and Natasha’s deodorant but he doesn’t smell like sex for once. Phil is still far too aware of how close they are and that he isn’t wearing a shirt.

“You’re, um, welcome,” Clint says, which Phil was expecting then adds, “here,” which Phil wasn’t.

“I don’t feel welcome here,” Phil tells him softly and tugs the bottom of the Henley out of Clint’s hands, slipping it on so there’s more of a shield between them.

Clint rocks back on his heels, and rubs at the back of his neck, which he only does when he’s frustrated or embarrassed.

“Nat said we were fucking this up,” he says with a tired little huff of a laugh.

“What are you trying to do?” Phil asks. It’s instinct by now to help Clint when he looks like that, but that’s not why Phil asks. Phil really wants to have misunderstood; it’s pathetic, actually, how much he wants that.

Before Clint can answer, the door handle rattles and Natasha walks in. She’s balancing coffee cups and paper bags in her hands and closes the door with the heel of one boot.

“Hi?” she asks, looking at them both, still squatting on the floor. “Everything okay?” She arches her eyebrows at Clint.

Clint sighs and stands up, taking one of the coffees and all the pastries from her. “You were right,” he says, almost too softly for Phil to hear and jerks his head toward Phil.

Phil stands up. He doesn’t feel like he belongs in their tableau so he sits down on his bed instead.

Natasha and Clint are talking quickly in nothing but facial ticks. Phil can normally follow them well when they do that, but Clint is angled away from him and they’re talking too quickly for Phil to follow along from Natasha alone.

Eventually, Natasha takes one of the paper bags away from Clint and walks purposefully over to Phil. She thrusts a cup and him, quickly followed by an iced scone.

“They had pumpkin spice,” she tells him and sits down next to him, folding one knee over her other leg so it brushes Phil’s thigh.

They’ve sat like this and eaten breakfast a hundred times, but right now it doesn’t feel relaxed; it feels as though they’re desperately trying to pretend to be relaxed.

It makes Phil’s throat hurt and the first pumpkin spice latte of the season curdle in his stomach. He worked for years for Clint and Natasha to trust him; he’s furious with himself for allowing that to slip away.

“I’m sorry,” he says, turning to face Natasha and flicking his eyes up to include Clint, who’s still standing, just behind her.

Natasha frowns. “We were working up to saying that,” she tells him.

Phil shakes his head. “No, I left you. I’m sorry for doing that. And I’m sorry for yelling at you earlier; you have every right to… make love, if you want to.”

He’s partly saying that to try to mend fences, but he’s also telling the truth. They’re involved; they don’t know they’re breaking his heart, why wouldn’t that have sex during some very rare downtime?

“We weren’t doing it to fuck with you,” Clint says quietly. He fiddles with the lid on his coffee cup.

“No.” Natasha lifts her head, soft smile curling the corner of her mouth. “We _were_ doing it to fuck with you. But not… We weren’t trying to be cruel. We were trying to seduce you.”

Phil’s ears buzz.

He blinks.

“I’m sorry?” he asks. It isn’t often that he’s surprised but, when he is, it’s always one of these two who manage it.

Clint rubs at his neck again. “We kind of. We got to talking, while you were dead. Turns out we’re both… into you?” He shrugs.

“Into me?” Phil asks, hearing his voice rising. “No, you’re not.”

They’re not. They’re _into_ each other. They’ve been sleeping together, on and off, for longer than he’s known either of them; they’ve never shown any indication of wanting him, or anyone else, to join them.

Natasha starts to argue, but he cuts her off. “No. You don’t have to say that. I’m not going anywhere again, I promised you that, you don’t have to try to bribe me with what I want.”

She starts to smile. _“Is_ it what you want?” she asks, green eyes bright and intense, locked on his. “I thought it might be, but I wasn’t sure. I know you’re in love with Clint, of course, but. Me too?”

“What?” Clint demands, turning wide eyes on her. “You _know_ that?”

Phil nods. “She does,” he says, unable to make his voice as loud as he’d like.

She’d come to him and asked point blank a few years ago. Phil hadn’t been able to lie to her successfully, but he’d managed to keep the other half of his secret to himself. He’s never wanted them to know this.

“Fuck.” Clint sits down on the bed opposite. He glares at Natasha. “You could have said.”

“I _could_ ,” she says, “but I want it to be both of us, I don’t want to give you up.”

“Tasha,” Clint says softly.

Phil takes a deep breath. “It’s both of you,” he says, “of course it’s both of you.” Maybe this is a game or a joke or a misunderstanding, but they’ve been more open this morning than he can ever remember them being and he has to reward that somehow.

“Oh thank god,” Clint mumbles and Natasha closes her eyes for a second.

Phil clears his throat. “Thank you for breakfast,” he says. “We should move on soon.”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees and smiles at him.

***

The drive is different today. Phil keeps catching Natasha looking at him, a satisfied smile in her eyes, and Clint starts singing along to the radio and doesn’t stop even when Phil threatens to join in.

It’s fun. He’s missed them a lot and this is the first time he’s really felt as though he’s back with them.

“Let’s go for dinner,” Natasha says as soon as they’ve picked a motel in Chicago.

“Pizza,” Clint agrees enthusiastically.

Phil wants to rolls his eyes and tell them not be so predictable, but he doesn’t. He pats his pocket instead to check that he has his wallet then holds the door for them both.

“I’ll pay,” he says, “but only if we can go somewhere that serves a decent microbrew.”

“Deal,” Natasha agrees and grabs the door out of his hands, waving him through ahead of her.

***

The awkwardness comes back when they’re getting ready for bed that night, but it’s a different sort of tension.

Phil has taught himself not to listen to Natasha’s soft sigh when she takes off her bra for the night or look at the sharp line of Clint’s hips as he tugs off his pants and his underwear slips down too, only _now_ they know he wants to look and it makes the back of his neck itch.

“Coulson,” Natasha says quietly and he’s startled to realise she’s standing just behind him. He normally knows where she is better than that.

He turns to her and swallows hard. She isn’t wearing a shirt. Her bra is simple, black cotton and the pale swell of her breasts is magnificent. (He’s always known that, but he’s never been invited to look before.)

“Natasha?” he asks. He isn’t going to touch without permission.

She smiles at him with one corner of her mouth, flirty and just slightly uncertain. “Would you like to have sex with us, Phil?” she asks.

Phil takes a moment to wonder if he actually _did_ die on the Helicarrier, and this is heaven finally giving him his reward.

She asked him so formally that he tries to do the same. He gets as far as, “I would,” but then his voice gives out. Because he _would_ , so fucking much.

It isn’t Natasha who kisses him; it’s Clint. He puts his hand on Phil’s shoulder and says, “Sir?” and, “Please?”

Phil’s nodding before he knows what the question is and then he has Clint’s mouth on his and he can’t help the sound he makes, the way he digs his fingers into Clint’s back and can’t stop pulling him closer and closer.

Clint smiles at him, dazed, when they break apart. “That worked, huh?” he asks, starting to look smug.

“Yeah,” Phil agrees breathlessly and then Natasha’s stepping into his space, putting a firm hand on his cheek and he has to focus on her for a minute.

The way she kisses is completely different from Clint. She starts out carefully, learning the shape of Phil’s mouth and then she presses closer, breasts against Phil’s chest, and bites the centre of his top lip.

Phil puts his hands on the small of her back, resting them there, and tries to match her kiss for kiss. (It’s the same feeling that he gets when she drags him down to the gym for a proper sparring session, as though she’s daring him to do better.)

“O _kay_ ,” Clint says, long after Phil’s lost track of time. “This is hot as fuck, so I’m just going to sit down right here and jerk off. Don’t mind me.”

Phil’s hand snaps out before he’s thought about it, grabbing Clint’s wrist and stopping him from going anywhere.

Natasha lets him go with a final kiss, pushing him toward Clint, so Phil uses his grip on Clint’s arm to pull him in, finally put his hands on Clint’s tempting hips and hold on.

Clint smiles wickedly at him, mouth stretched wide in the way it gets when he really wants people to believe he isn’t nervous. “Okay?” he asks, putting his hands on the hem of Phil’s shirt, pulling it up slowly when Phil nods.

He stops suddenly, breath catching, and leans in, exhales warm on the raised pink scar over Phil’s heart.

“That’s – ” he says and drops his hands, stepping back.

Phil struggles the rest of the way out of his shirt and catches Clint’s arms before he can go far. “It’s not that ugly, is it?” he asks unevenly. He knows that isn’t why Clint’s freaked out, but it’s second nature to give him an out.

“Let me see,” Natasha tells him, stepping easily under his arm so she’s between him and Clint. She doesn’t try to break his grip on Clint’s wrists though, which he’s sure she would if he were making things worse by trying to keep him here.

She spends a long time studying Phil’s chest. He doesn’t know what she’s seeing or what she’s hoping to see, but he decided when they turned up in Portland, that he’ll let them have whatever they need to feel better about him nearly dying.

So he stays still, and keeps his breathing even, and watches the bright top of Natasha’s head.

After a minute, Clint shakes his wrists free of Phil’s and links their hands together. Phil looks up at him, surprised, and nods when Clint smiles questioningly.

“You didn’t die,” Natasha says and leans in to press a kiss against his scar. It’s still fresh enough that the salt on her lips stings, but Phil will never tell her that. 

When she straightens up, there’s something fragile about her expression, just for a second. “Clint,” she says, “give me your hand.”

Clint does, and Phil’s hand goes along with it, because Clint doesn’t let go of him. Natasha pushes Clint’s palm flat against Phil’s scar then turns around and kisses Clint. Phil watches them, Natasha’s hand over Clint’s hand over Phil’s heart.

“Can I make a request?” he asks, clearing his throat when his voice comes out thick.

“Mmhmm,” Natasha hums into Clint’s mouth. The fact that she’s talking to Phil and kissing Clint shouldn't be hot, but it is.

Phil takes a deep breath. “I’d like to watch you two together,” he tells them. 

“Yeah?” Clint asks. “That all you want?”

“For now,” Phil promises and squeezes his hand once, before stepping back. “Please?”

Clint laughs and kisses Natasha again. “Tasha? What d’you think?”

“I think we can make it interesting,” Natasha says, turning to look Phil over quickly as though she’s sure he has an ulterior motive for asking for that. 

He doesn’t. Not really. He’s just spent years listening to them and not being allowed to see; he can’t think of anything he’d rather do than watch them.

***

It’s strange, after so long wanting this and telling himself it can’t happen, the actual sex doesn’t feel real to Phil. It passes in a series of snapshots, brief, perfect moments that he wants to rewind and go back to time and again:

Natasha straddles Clint, smiling down at him with a slightly dangerous edge of smirk and teeth. Phil shivers. Clint arches up against her.

She grabs a handful of Clint’s hair and pulls his head up toward hers, lowering her mouth to his and biting, hard, at his lower lip. Blood trickles across Clint’s mouth, staining his teeth for a second before he licks it away.

Phil wonders if she’ll do that to him, if he can do that to Clint.

The way Clint and Natasha move together is beautiful to watch. They obviously know each other’s bodies inside out, ringing soft gasps out of each other with what look like casual touches.

“Don’t be quiet now,” Phil says, shaking his head, “not after the last couple of days.”

“You, um. You like it when we’re loud?” Clint asks. Natasha drags her fingernails across his belly and he loses the middle of his sentence on a moan.

Phil has _hated_ the last few days. “In principle,” he tells Clint and Clint nods as though he understands.

Natasha’s hand keeps going until it’s wrapped around Clint’s cock, grip possessive and familiar. Phil presses his palm to his own erection, giving it something to strain against, but he’s happy to wait to jerk off.

Natasha pulls her hand back until Clint’s cock is held lightly between just her fingertips. She rubs her thumb over the head and looks up at Phil. “More?” she asks.

Phil doesn’t know if she’s asking if he wants more or if he wants to _see_ more, but the answer is yes, regardless. 

She tips her head thoughtfully. “It’s been strange, not having your voice in our ears. Hasn’t it, Clint?”

“Really, really fucking weird,” Clint agrees. He’s staring at Natasha’s hand, the way she’s rolling his cock between her fingers, a little threat of nails every time.

“Maybe Phil should tell us what to do now, then?” Natasha suggests. 

Clint’s whole face flushes red. “Fuck, yes,” he says, looking up at her like she’s the sun. Phil’s seen him look that way a thousand times; right now, Phil completely understands.

Natasha shakes her hair out of her eyes, grinning challengingly at Phil. “Do you like that idea, Coulson?” she asks.

“I like that idea,” Phil agrees, “but don’t call me Coulson in bed, Agent.”

Clint laughs. “Aw, c’mon, sir, but it’s kinky.”

Phil stands up and comes to kneel on the bed beside them. “I never said you couldn’t call me sir, Barton,” he says and puts his hand on the centre of Clint’s chest, to feel Clint’s laugh.

“Phil,” Clint says softly, tipping his head back. 

Tired of teasing for now, Phil leans forward and kisses him. They don’t stop until Natasha clears her throat. 

“I have a cock in my hand,” she tells them, “and if someone doesn’t tell me what to do with it, I’m going to use my own initiative.”

She clearly decides to do that anyway because Clint is suddenly groaning, mouth going slack against Phil’s. That’s a fascinating feeling all by itself, Clint’s stubble a sharp contrast to the soft, lax skin of his lips.

Phil bites, feeling the flesh give and tear slightly, a little coppery bubble of blood on Phil’s tongue, when he laps it up.

“Fuck, I’ve changed my mind,” Clint says, “you’re going to kill me, between you.”

“If Natasha hasn’t yet, I doubt I’ll manage it,” Phil tells him.

Clint stops smiling, staring up at Phil from a hazy, too-close distance. “Don’t believe that for a second, sir,” he says earnestly.

Phil stares back at him for a long moment then has to sit back, clear his throat and change the subject.

“What are my parameters?” he asks Natasha.

She understands straight away. “I prefer fucking to being fucked; Clint doesn’t like to have his eyes covered.” She smiles slowly. “Other than that, we have no hard rules.”

Well _that’s_ a nice image. “Do you – ” Phil clears his throat again. “Do you have something to fuck him with right now?”

It’s Clint who answers. “She does. You’ll like it; she’s so fucking hot with a strap-on.”

“Okay.” Phi is sold. “Impress me then.”

It’s a risky thing to say; he might never have had sex with them before, but he’s known them both a long time. Back in the early days, saying that would have led to them telling him to fuck off and that they weren’t interested in impressing anyone. Lately, they’ve been showing off for him.

He hopes the same dynamic works in the bedroom.

It turns out that it does.

A handful of minutes later, and Phil’s back on the other bed, giving them room, while Natasha kneels between Clint’s sprawled legs, pushing into him in a smooth, determined glide.

The dildo is thick and black and curved slightly, but it’s not that that catches Phil’s attention so much as the stretch of the black leather harness around Natasha’s waist and between her legs. She looks utterly natural and in control, fucking Clint while he curses and twitches underneath her.

“Okay, Clint?” Phil asks, forgetting the game they’re playing and using his first name.

Clint stretches out his fingers toward Phil and doesn’t answer until Phil grabs them. “Okay,” he says, rolling his head to the side and blinking hazily at Phil. “Tasha’s the hottest, right?”

“Joint hottest,” Phil tells him, tricked into honesty by how gorgeous they are, individually and together.

“What now?” Natasha asks, catching Phil’s attention. She’s drawing her fingers around the place where she’s buried inside Clint, but she’s holding her hips still.

“Fuck him?” Phil suggests, arching his eyebrows questioningly.

Natasha grins. “Fast?”

“Yes,” Phil starts then really looks at Clint. He looks blissed out and Natasha hasn’t done much yet. “No. No, I think he’ll enjoy slow.”

“Sir,” Natasha says smartly, cheekily, and slowly draws her hips backwards, dragging her dildo out.

Phil’s own cock twitches in sympathy, imaging how Clint’s body would feel, tight and grasping around it. He wraps a hand around it, just squeezing distractedly, and watches.

They’re both drenched in sweat by the time Natasha’s hand drops between her legs, playing with her own clit while Clint groans and pants underneath her.

“Fuck, Natasha, fuck, move,” he begs but she doesn’t just hitches her hips, tiny half-circles while her fingers speed up. Phil wishes he were level with her cunt; he’d put his mouth on her and see if he could help.

She makes a quiet, “Ah,” sound when she comes but she doesn’t stop rubbing herself, head dropped down toward her chest, and the quiet sounds get louder, ending on something like a startled gut punch that makes Clint curse and Phil squeeze the base of his cock quick so he doesn’t come just from that sound alone.

When Natasha lifts her head, her eyes are dark. She licks her lips at Clint then looks over at Phil, eyes travelling down his body and stopping at his rock hard cock.

“Would you like one of us to put that in our mouths?” she asks, voice shredded.

There’s a steady leak of pre-come dripping out of Phil’s cock. The thought of that doesn’t help.

“Fuck, hey, pick me,” Clint says, tap-tapping his fingers against Natasha’s side in a jerky come-here wave.

“ _Yes_ ,” Phil agrees fervently. He’s had a lot of fantasies about exactly that. He stands up then hesitates. “But I’m not sure that’s exactly possible right now.”

He could crawl in between them but he isn’t small enough or supple enough for that to work, not without a lot of embarrassment and possibly some strained muscles. (His, obviously, they’re still at the peak of SHIELD fitness.)

“We can fix that,” Natasha assures him then puts a hand on Clint’s shoulder, a knee in his side, and they’re rolling over on the bed. They nearly slide straight off the other side, except they don’t, of course, just end up neatly reversed, Clint on top and straddling Natasha’s hips.

Somehow, neither the dildo nor the harness have slipped at all.

“Huh,” Clint laughs. “That was fun.” He jabs Natasha in the shoulder. “Don’t do that again.”

“Shut up and suck Phil’s cock,” she tells him and plants her feet on the bed, thrusting her hips _up_.

Clint turns, reaching for Phil, who steps quickly around the bed, catching Clint’s shoulders when Clint catches his hips and bending to kiss Clint before he lets him go anywhere near his cock.

Then, in the interest of fairness and the fact he hasn’t done it for a few minutes, he kneels down on the carpet and kisses Natasha too.

She smiles, nipping at his chin. “Go on,” she says, “he’s useless after he comes, so you should get in quick.”

Phil looks up when she does, taking in the faint curve of Clint’s stomach directly in front of them, the long line of his torso widening out into shoulders that Phil would like a chance to bite.

Clint’s cock is right in Phil’s eyeline: hard and curved and flushed dark. Phil moves forward automatically, leaning his weight on his forearms and wrapping his mouth around the head.

Clint swears above him and Phil’s not sure if it’s a good sound or not, so he keeps his mouth light, drawing figure eights with his tongue while Clint groans and Natasha says, “Did you change the plan, Coulson?”

“Coulson... Coulson always changes the fucking plans,” Clint says, sounding like he’s gritting the words out from between his teeth.

Phil pulls back, tightening his lips just before he does and sucking hard so it makes a satisfying pop. 

“I always change the fucking plans to make them _better_ ,” he tells Clint mildly and puts his mouth back where it was.

“He’s got a point,” Natasha says, laughing. Her hips start to move, warm skin bumping Phil’s shoulder unapologetically. Blowing Clint gets harder when he starts to move in line with Natasha’s rhythm but Phil manages it. 

Phil can’t help smiling around Clint’s cock, trying to control it because it makes sucking harder, but not doing a very good job. This is how he always hoped this would work; this is _them_ , this is teamwork. They know how to do this.

Clint’s surprisingly quiet when he comes and unsurprisingly appreciative when he slumps forward, kissing the remnants of come out of Phil’s mouth and then curling around Natasha, kissing her lips then down her neck, over her breasts, back bowing so he can take her nipples into his mouth, one then the other.

Phil could almost come without touching himself, just from watching them. He grabs hold of his cock again, no longer caring about teasing himself or making it last, just works himself quickly, coming not long before Natasha orgasms for the second time.

There’s silence after, while they all try to catch their breath and Natasha and Clint work on untangling from each other. For some reason, that seems more intimate than watching them fuck and Phil stands up abruptly, heading for the shower.

He gets to the bathroom, but he doesn’t get any further than that, finds himself just standind still.

His mouth still tastes of Clint’s come, which isn’t particularly pleasant but he finds himself reluctant to brush his teeth anyway. Phil is a practical man and he knows that that was more than likely the only time he’ll get to be with them. 

Which is fine. 

It was more than he was expecting.

“You look as though you’re thinking too hard,” Natasha says softly from behind him. He goes to turn around but she catches him by the hip, stopping him, then wrapping her arms around his waist from behind, pressing a wet kiss to his spine.

“He’s so in love with you,” she says between kisses. 

Phil shudders, catching the edge of the sink, partly because of what she’s doing and partly in relief. “And you?”

She’s quiet. “Love is... love isn’t something I can always understand? But I know I feel as much for you as I feel for Clint. Will that do?”

Phil turns around then; he has to. “Yes. Yes, sure, of course. What are you...? Where are you planning for us to go now?”

“Toledo?” she offers. “Then Cleveland?”

She laughs at the unimpressed expression on Phil’s face then catches the back of his neck in a grip that isn’t joking at all. “We’re keeping you,” she tells him, “we _want_ to keep you. We left you alone for a couple of hours and you got yourself killed.”

Phil stiffens. “You don’t _owe_ me,” he starts.

She jerks her head angrily. “No.” She squeezes his neck, just below his skull. She could kill him, but he isn’t scared. “You owe _us_.” She relaxes her grip, stroking her fingers over his skin. “You scared us.”

Phil closes his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I wasn’t sure I was going to recover. I didn’t want to saddle you with an old wreck of a handler who you felt obliged to keep around.”

Natasha makes a choked noise. 

“That’s so fucking stupid,” Clint says, voice groggy from the other room. Then he appears in the doorway, takes in the scene and slots himself right into the middle of it, one arm around Natasha’s waist, the other around Phil’s, resting his head against Phil’s shoulder. 

“Stupid,” he repeats, lips on Phil’s skin. “You’re ours; we wouldn’t care if you were broken.”

Phil presses his face into Clint’s hair, reaches out and completes their triangle by slipping his hand up into Natasha’s hair. 

It’s entirely possible that he _is_ being stupid, allowing this to happen, but that’s okay, he decides; he’s okay with that if it brings him this.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Matchbox Twenty's Overjoyed.


End file.
